Winston the Pug: Dec. 5, 2003 - Aug. 14, 2005
"The dog is a gentleman; I hope to go to his heaven, not man's." - Mark Twain
BY LEE PEACOCK
JOURNAL STAFF WRITER
I've always told myself that I'd never write a column about my dog, but something happened Sunday that changed my mind altogether.
My dog, Winston, a Pug who was not yet two years old, died Sunday night after a two-day bout with Pug Dog Encephalitis, a rare, incurable and fatal illness that affects only Pugs. I’ve had more than a few dogs in my life, so I knew that the man-dog bond could be strong at times, but I had no idea that losing the little fellow would be so tough.
My wife, Crystal, received Winston as a puppy for her birthday in January 2004, while I was overseas with the Army in Iraq and Kuwait. When I returned home, it didn’t take long for me and Winston to become fast friends.
I remember the first time that I ever saw him. I walked through the front door of my house, dressed in my Army greens, and because he was paying more attention to my wife than anything else, he didn't see me. I know that I'm kind of hard to miss, and I remember remarking that he wouldn’t make much of a guard dog if he didn't notice a 6-foot-3, 230-pound stranger entering the house.
Like the motto of his breed, multum in parvo, Winston was a lot in a small package. Even though he wasn't much of a guard dog, Winston deserved a place in the World’s Hall of Fame for Frolic and Play. He was a clown at heart with a sense of humor, a dog not too delicate for fun and games, and always anxious to please and learn. At the same time, he carried himself with an almost human dignity, and there wasn’t a shy bone in his sturdy body.
His favorite toy was a red ball with a silver bell inside, and his favorite pastime involved carrying and chasing that ball all over our house. Often when I would fold clothes (yes, I fold clothes), he'd walk into the room, ball in his mouth, and drop it at my feet.
"You trying to tell me something, little buddy?" I'd ask.
In reply, he'd look from me to the ball and back again.
"OK," I'd say before picking up the ball and bouncing it down the hall for him to retrieve. No matter how many times I threw that ball and no matter how winded he would get, he never grew tired of the game.
The happiest I ever saw Winston were the times when I'd take him and his half-brother, Wilson, to Veterans Memorial Park here in Monroeville. When no one else was around, I'd take them onto one of the baseball fields, shut all the gates and turn them loose. Of course, we'd have our red ball with us and we'd toss it around until the sun went down and darkness drove us home.
Winston was an especially smart dog, and when I talked to him (yes, I talked to him a lot), he always seemed to understand what I was saying, at least on some level. With that characteristic head-tilt that all Pugs seem to be born with, he’d twist his head as if he were on the verge of unraveling the very mysteries of the English language.
I’m convinced that dogs see their masters and other humans as nothing more than just really big dogs, and I often wondered what Winston thought when my wife and I would leave for work each morning. He had no concept of things like work, jobs, newspapers or even money, so he had no idea why we'd leave him and his brother home alone all day. And even though he had no idea of what I did for a living, and even though he’d never read anything that I’ve written, he seemed to love me just the same.
I guess the whole point of this column is to memorialize Winston in some small way. Copies of The Journal end up in a lot of different places, including bound volumes in our office and on microfilm in different libraries. I picture someone many years from now, maybe someone like our own George Thomas Jones today, looking through those old Journals from way back in 2005 and reading about how there was once a great little dog named Winston who warmed the life of this writer and his wife for almost two years.
In the end, when I think of where Winston is now, I imagine him running across some green Elysium field, a place where the sky is always bright and blue, a place where the sun is always shining and where there’s always someone there to throw him a ball. If I’m lucky, I suspect that we’ll cross paths again someday, and I’ll try not to act surprised when he runs up and drops a red ball at my feet.
BY LEE PEACOCK
JOURNAL STAFF WRITER
I've always told myself that I'd never write a column about my dog, but something happened Sunday that changed my mind altogether.
My dog, Winston, a Pug who was not yet two years old, died Sunday night after a two-day bout with Pug Dog Encephalitis, a rare, incurable and fatal illness that affects only Pugs. I’ve had more than a few dogs in my life, so I knew that the man-dog bond could be strong at times, but I had no idea that losing the little fellow would be so tough.
My wife, Crystal, received Winston as a puppy for her birthday in January 2004, while I was overseas with the Army in Iraq and Kuwait. When I returned home, it didn’t take long for me and Winston to become fast friends.
I remember the first time that I ever saw him. I walked through the front door of my house, dressed in my Army greens, and because he was paying more attention to my wife than anything else, he didn't see me. I know that I'm kind of hard to miss, and I remember remarking that he wouldn’t make much of a guard dog if he didn't notice a 6-foot-3, 230-pound stranger entering the house.
Like the motto of his breed, multum in parvo, Winston was a lot in a small package. Even though he wasn't much of a guard dog, Winston deserved a place in the World’s Hall of Fame for Frolic and Play. He was a clown at heart with a sense of humor, a dog not too delicate for fun and games, and always anxious to please and learn. At the same time, he carried himself with an almost human dignity, and there wasn’t a shy bone in his sturdy body.
His favorite toy was a red ball with a silver bell inside, and his favorite pastime involved carrying and chasing that ball all over our house. Often when I would fold clothes (yes, I fold clothes), he'd walk into the room, ball in his mouth, and drop it at my feet.
"You trying to tell me something, little buddy?" I'd ask.
In reply, he'd look from me to the ball and back again.
"OK," I'd say before picking up the ball and bouncing it down the hall for him to retrieve. No matter how many times I threw that ball and no matter how winded he would get, he never grew tired of the game.
The happiest I ever saw Winston were the times when I'd take him and his half-brother, Wilson, to Veterans Memorial Park here in Monroeville. When no one else was around, I'd take them onto one of the baseball fields, shut all the gates and turn them loose. Of course, we'd have our red ball with us and we'd toss it around until the sun went down and darkness drove us home.
Winston was an especially smart dog, and when I talked to him (yes, I talked to him a lot), he always seemed to understand what I was saying, at least on some level. With that characteristic head-tilt that all Pugs seem to be born with, he’d twist his head as if he were on the verge of unraveling the very mysteries of the English language.
I’m convinced that dogs see their masters and other humans as nothing more than just really big dogs, and I often wondered what Winston thought when my wife and I would leave for work each morning. He had no concept of things like work, jobs, newspapers or even money, so he had no idea why we'd leave him and his brother home alone all day. And even though he had no idea of what I did for a living, and even though he’d never read anything that I’ve written, he seemed to love me just the same.
I guess the whole point of this column is to memorialize Winston in some small way. Copies of The Journal end up in a lot of different places, including bound volumes in our office and on microfilm in different libraries. I picture someone many years from now, maybe someone like our own George Thomas Jones today, looking through those old Journals from way back in 2005 and reading about how there was once a great little dog named Winston who warmed the life of this writer and his wife for almost two years.
In the end, when I think of where Winston is now, I imagine him running across some green Elysium field, a place where the sky is always bright and blue, a place where the sun is always shining and where there’s always someone there to throw him a ball. If I’m lucky, I suspect that we’ll cross paths again someday, and I’ll try not to act surprised when he runs up and drops a red ball at my feet.
posted by Lee Peacock at 2:59 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home